


The Underdark Sun

by WithywindlesDaughter



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Balin is kind, F/M, NSFW, Punishment, Thorin is brutal, Torture, and Oin, dark!fic, hobbit au, never volunteer, so is Dwalin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-08 08:17:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithywindlesDaughter/pseuds/WithywindlesDaughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What if Thorin was a Tudor King?"</p><p>An AU work of fiction where the dwarves had never left Erebor, but instead are like the Tudor monarchs - warlike and ruthless, and Thorin Son of Thrain is the absolute Master of The Lonely Mountain.  </p><p>Thorin takes a warrior clan leader hostage to end a war and ends up bringing the battle into his own mountain.  </p><p>TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS STORY: Violence, captivity, torture, night terrors, darkness. Readers may be offended at the conduct of their favorite characters. Thorin is a brutal bastard; Dwalin even more so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Walking Out Of The Light

**Author's Note:**

> The period of the Tudor reign was universally brutal, where the rule of the monarchy was absolute and rebellion was dealt with in a manner that would make us cringe today. The King ruled without question and the fate of those around him was at his whim. The challenge was to write the story as if it were in this period yet keep true to the original nature of these characters. I hope I have done so well.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS STORY: Violence, captivity, torture, night terrors, darkness. Readers may be offended at the conduct of their favorite characters. Thorin is a brutal bastard; Dwalin even more so.

 

**_“What if Thorin was a Tudor King?”  
_ **

** Chapter One **

**“Walking Out Of The Light”**

In the Third Age, at the end of the Great War of Men & Dwarves, the King Under The Mountain, Thorin, Son of Thrain, Son of Thror, of the Line of Durin and Monarch of The East brought to heel the last of the tribes of men that opposed him.  Worn down by years of blood and hardship the last of the wild men gathered on the fields bordered by the River Running to lay down their bows and sue for peace.

Two armies faced each other across a long flat field of brown grass.  This place had been chosen because there were no trees or hills to hide behind.  The only landmark was a large grey tent in the middle marking the line between the two camps. The late spring sun had failed to turn anything green.  It had a cold, heavy air about it.  They sat and stared at each other over the bleak expanse, banners aloft in the cold wind but no trumpets bowing, no horn or sound of drum.  This had been a long war and they were tired.  They just wanted to get it over with and go home.

So with little ceremony Thorin the Stone Lord made his way to the tent and stepped inside, followed by his Second, Dwalin, Son of Fundin and several trusted lieutenants as witnesses.  He didn’t need a bodyguard.  The Stone Lords led their own troops in battle and Thorin was a fearsome and relentless warrior.  Indeed, more than once a battle had been ended only by his and Dwalin’s appearance on the field with their enemies turning to run or throwing down their weapons.  They looked at each other as they approached the tent, harder, older, more scars than when this had all began.  “This is the last, eh?” Dwalin commented.

“Aye.”  Thorin had fought hard for this, pushing his kin to lend their forces to his own.  The only way to secure the peace, he had told them, would be in blood and bodies and he had been right.  The wild men that roamed the plains had been the last of the hold-outs.  Keeping no towns or towers they had been hard to pin down, raiding settlements, harassing caravans and making life altogether unpleasant for the dwarves for far too long.  Thorin had been forced to march out to find them, away from his mountain, pulling warriors away from his borders and using up food supplies far from home.  They had to end this now or go home and endure another season of war and the longer the wild men remained at large the greater the chance that another tribe would break away and follow their example.  He had come upon them while they were on the move, falling on the clans before they had a chance to regroup.  Even so, the battle had lasted for three long days, the enemy raining arrows down on them from a distance or harassing their lines riding quick, nimble little horses.  But in the end he had won, as he must win, as he would always win, and on the morning of the fourth day the fighting stopped.  “Let’s get what we came for and go home.”

He stepped through the tent flap and surveyed the inside.  It was a large, round tent illuminated by several hanging lanterns and the floor was covered in a thick layer of carpets.  There was a small table set in the middle with two chairs facing opposite each other.  The rest of the space was filled with low benches and little else.  Seated in the chair across from him was a blond woman of medium height and age.  Her long hair was plaited into many braids and she wore dark-colored breeches, tall boots and a leather jerkin and gloves.  It wasn’t heavy armor like the dwarves wore but was light and flexible enough to ride in.  She would have looked utilitarian if not for the heavy gold torque around her throat and gold earcuffs.  Her belt and the scabbard of her short sword were tooled with running horses and she held an elegantly carved bow across her knees.  Her beauty was marred by her seriousness and she did not rise or smile at his entrance.  Behind her stood a number of women dressed as she was and all equally as grave.  She leaned forward at his approach.  “Coirm gan chuireadh, Thorin cloch tiarna.”

He wasn’t naive enough to believe she was in any way praising him.  Her forces lay in ruins behind her, their dead unburned, their horses scattered.  Indeed, he had not expected to meet her at all.  “I had expected Raghallach, or is he no longer the leader of his people?” 

The woman motioned behind her and one of her attendants brought forward a belt with a scabbard on it and a broken sword.  The leather was stained in dried blood and the weapon was broken near the hilt.  “You have had Raghallach, or one of your warriors has.”  She laid it on the table and he noticed how red her eyes were.  “He has gone with honor to the halls of his fathers.  I will speak on his behalf.”

Thorin considered this a moment.  “And you are?”

“I am called Kelyn,” she answered, pronouncing it Keeluun.  “His mother was my mother.”  She was calm and proud through the lines of weary grief on her.  “I will now speak for my people.”

Thorin wasn’t used to treating with women.  Female leaders were not common to the warrior tribes, unheard of in the dwarven holds.  “Fine,” he pulled out the empty chair and sat down.  “Your rebellion against me has run its course.  Your army defeated.  It is time to fall to your knees and beg my mercy for your people.”

“You are misinformed, Stone Lord,” she did not raise her voice.  “We do not beg.”

“You will.  And you will pay back my losses in goods and slaves.”

“My people make bad slaves.”

“Or I will kill each and every one of you.”

They sat staring at each other, seemingly locked into an impasse.  She looked hard at them.  They were dark with blood and covered in scars.  She was a head taller than either of them but they were broad and seemed to be put together on some heavier scale.  They wore their armor like they did not feel it, showing no signs of fatigue after the past three days.  He had all the cards in his hand and she knew it.  She was praying that they had bought enough time for the mothers and children to get so far away this savage army would not be able to follow them.  With so many of her fighters dead there was just no point in continuing this any longer.  Raghallach had wanted to fight until every last one of them was dead.  She hoped to buy some kind of future for her people, what remained of them.

She closed her eyes and passed her hand over her face.  “Our goods are scattered on the road, I am sure your gaiscioch have gathered everything fit to carry back.  My people will never bow to your yoke.  They will knife you in your sleep.  I have nothing to offer you but our fealty.”

“Fealty I do not need from a people I have already beaten,” he spoke sharply. 

“We will keep your southern borders all the way down to the Brown Lands.  There we do not go.  But your settlements will live in peace and your caravans go unmolested.  And if war erupts in the south you will know before anyone else does.  Beyond that,” she spread her gloved hands.  “I have nothing to offer you.”

“We should kill all of them and be done with it,” Dwalin offered his opinion.  “To make up for the trouble they’ve caused us!  They will only regroup to attack us again next year.”

“Then do so and I will not have to look at your rough face Master Dwarf,” it was clear that she did not like Dwalin.  “Run us into the sea to drown.  Take our women and our horses.  _It is what I would do._   But you will be another year away from your hold and another year without peace.”

This was escalating far too quickly for Thorin.  He was tired of this.  He leaned over and spoke with Dwalin in his own language.  It was clear this woman was a leader and a warrior and it was equally as clear that she meant to sit and argue all the day with them.  He knew her people were on the run, understood what she was doing.  He would have done the same.  “I had meant to take your brother back with me as a hostage, to ensure your good behavior.”  This wasn’t an uncommon practice.  Royal families farmed out members to other holds to secure alliances.  Warlords took hostages to make sure a conquered people did not regroup once they were out of his sight.

She looked him firmly in the eye and stated “Then I will go in his place.”

Thorin held up his hand and dismissed the offer outright.  “You have no knowledge of what you offer.”

“Do I not look like a warrior to you, Thorin, Son of Thrain?”  Her head began to ache deeply.

“Not in the eyes of my people,” Thorin answered tartly. 

She leaned forward.  “Well I am in the eyes of mine.”

“We will take our payment in chattel and goods as a bond for your fealty,” he waved her off.

“Then this truce is for naught!” she stood up, angry.  “Let us take up arms and be done with it.”

The room stirred with both sides staring at each other with hostility.

“This is no fit thing for a woman!” Dwalin barked angrily.  “If your brother cannot go then send forth yur husband.”

Kelyn leaned forward, put her hands on the table and drew herself close to Dwalin.  “I know you, I know your kind.  You think you want peace but you will choke on it.  You will drink its dust and it will weigh upon you as you spend the years in your mountain, a captive of the chains you forged.  Do not undervalue me for I have put twenty true shafts into your warriors and watched them fall.  I looked for you and your bloody king and I would have ended you both if I could have gotten close enough because I do not like the taste of this peace you serve.”

Dwalin’s massive hand shot out and grabbed her by the wrist.  To her credit she did not flinch.  “If you think to insult my…”

“Oh, but I do,” she replied, making a fist.  “All tyrants are bloody.  They rule though fear and they gorge on the spoils of war until they rot from it.  They trust no one because they cannot be trusted.  They murder and burn and steal and call it just.  They send good men to their deaths all the while waiting for the friend who will slip a blade through their ribs when they are too drunk to see…”

“ENOUGH!!” Thorin slammed his fist down onto the table making everybody jump.  Dwalin let go of Kelyn and she stepped back.  “If you are thick-headed enough to think that you can do this than I will say yes.”  He stood up and stepped away from the table.  “And may your gods help you if you are wrong.”

She nodded.  He saw that her face was an ashen shade of gray but her eyes were resolute.  Kelyn turned to the young woman standing behind her chair.  The girls face was a mask of grief.  She unfastened her ornate belt and handed her sword and scabbard to her.  “Take our people south,” she told her.  “They will look to you now.”

The girl nodded and cradled the sword in her arms.  She also handed her the heavy gloves with the long gauntlets.  “Sing my song.  Make it a good song.”  Kelyn embraced her tightly and then turned back to Thorin.

Picking up her fine bow she knelt before him and offered it up.  “I speak for my people.  I offer our fealty and ask that we be left in peace.  We will guard your southern border, we shall never again trouble your homes or your merchants and I will go as hostage to your hold as a promise for that peace.”

Thorin took the bow from her and snapped it across his knee.  “I accept you as hostage to my people, Mahal give you the strength to bear it.  If any of your people should take up arms against us I will hang you from my gates.  Look now upon your people for you shall not see them again.”

 

 

 


	2. Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What if Thorin was a Tudor King?"
> 
> An AU work of fiction where the dwarves had never left Erebor, but instead are like the Tudor monarchs - warlike and ruthless, and Thorin Son of Thrain is the absolute Master of The Lonely Mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The period of the Tudor reign was universally brutal, where the rule of the monarchy was absolute and rebellion was dealt with in a manner that would make us cringe today. The King ruled without question and the fate of those around him was at his whim. The challenge was to write the story as if it were in this period yet keep true to the original nature of these characters. I hope I have done so well.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS STORY: Violence, captivity, torture, night terrors, darkness. Readers may be offended at the conduct of their favorite characters. Thorin is a brutal bastard; Dwalin even more so.

 

 

**_“What if Thorin was a Tudor King?”  
_ **

****

****

****

** Chapter Two **

**“Dog”**

**_  
_**  


****

****

****

They took her from the tent on the dwarf side.  She did not look back at the field, she had seen enough of it.  There was a dreadful silence.  No women remained behind to mourn the dead and the fallen warriors and horses made no sound.  There were only dwarves speaking in their own harsh language and the sound of crows coming down to feed.  They bound her hands in front of her and tied the line to the saddle of Thorin’s pony.  It was going to be a long walk.  She was glad she had her boots.  Behind her Kelyn knew her daughter carried her sword on the road to find what remained of her people and prayed they would find their way too far south to ever see another dwarf again.

The night before had been hard.  Her brother lay dying and the battle had turned into a route.  There hadn’t been hope even on the first day.  Once she had seen the size of the dwarf army she knew their cause was lost.  “Leave the stores, load the old, the mothers and their children into the wagons and send them down the road.  We will buy them what time we can, but if they stay we cannot save them.”  The dwarves claimed chattel as their prize in war.  She would die before she watched her people limp away in chains. 

Her daughter had not wanted the truce.  “I would rather that we died together on the field than see you do this.  What honor is this?”

“What do you think will happen to them if you do not lead them?”  Kelyn understood her grief, but she understood duty more.  “They cannot stand defenseless and there will be enemies for them wherever they go now.  Sing my songs for them.  Mine and Raghallachs.  Tell our people what we did here.  Make them good songs.”  There had been tears between them then.  She had hoped they might ride down the years together, hoped to see her daughter’s daughters, but now those things would never happen.  “I go now to my death.  Do not waste the chance the gods have given us.”

So she walked out without looking back and saw the golden fields and her people no more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was a long, weary march to the mountain.  Kelyn walked it at Thorin’s stirrup and towards the end she ceased to look up, endlessly watching the road in front of her for rocks or holes to trouble her feet.  The going was slow because most of the army was on foot.  But no thing troubled them on the journey.  She was strong and used to travel but at the end of each day her legs screamed at her and soon her feet began to blister inside of her boots.  She tried not to show it but channeled the pain of it into her determination to reach this place under her own power.  None spoke to her, not Thorin or Dwalin or the two guards who watched her every night.  Thorin did not even refer to her by name but instead called her “Dog.”

 _“Bring the dog,”_ he would call when he was ready to mount up and they would tie her rope to his saddle.  _“Tend to it,”_ he would command as he tossed the rope back to them when they stopped.  By the time they reached Esgaroth she was limping.  She had never seen it, a beautiful long lake at the foot of the mountain.  It was fed by three tributaries, one cascading down in icy channels from the mountain itself.  On its shores was a city of men, beautiful in the sun, a place where caravans came and went and barges poled to and from.  She heard the voices of men and women, heard music playing from the distance.  She thought that at one time she might have wanted to see it.

Thorin loosed her line from his saddle and tossed it to one of the guards.  “Tend to it.”  He and Dwalin and a handful of guards detoured into the city while the rest sheltered under the trees by the roadside.  Kelyn sat down and leaned back against a tree, watching people and wagons come and go along the road.  Her right leg was hurting ominously and she felt at a loss without her horse.  More than the dwarves she was acutely out of place.  The knowledge that she would not see this or any place outside of Erebor again after this day became profoundly surreal.  She had never spent a night indoors anything but a tent.  Never not seen the sky above her.  She looked up into the blue sky.  Blue, so rarely found in nature.  Only in the sky and the water that reflected it.  The eyes of her people.  She pressed her hand over her face. 

“Bring the dog.”  She hadn’t seen them return so lost in her own thoughts.  So now a walk up the final road and in through the gate of Erebor.  It wasn’t exactly a gate but two monumental stone statues on either side of the opening in the front of the mountain.  There were doors that stood open.  She had never seen such doors.  Metal and taller than any building.  Ravens wheeled and called over the top.  Looking up she saw bodies hanging from the top of the opening.  Thorin’s enemies, hung there for the ravens to feed upon.  Hung there as an example for any who might conspire to oppose him.  Travelers would carry the tale of those bodies far and wide.  Thinking of the people she had left behind she wondered if it hadn’t been wiser to listen.

The walk up the steps became hard for her.  She was in pain and walking into the stone fortress stirred fear in her.  It was not dark inside, indeed not even a cave but a beautifully carved labyrinth of steps, walkways and bridges, the center of which was a broad avenue crowded with men and dwarves.  The crowd parted as Thorin’s party entered.  Horns had sounded at the outposts to signal their return and there was a welcoming party assembled to meet them.  There a company of finely-dressed dwarves of all looks and ages waited, and all bowed as they passed.  It had not occurred to her that they would all look so different.  She had only seen the soldiers in their long hair and much-like armor.  But here they were as different as travelers on the road.  They were staring at her and she knew she was an ugly sight.  Her face and hands were dirty, she was limping and covered in the dust of the road from the many days journey.  With no horse or weapon she looked less the warrior and more a vagabond brought in by the watch for begging on the doorstep.  Looking at the crowd she saw women, dwarven women who were lovely and fine and who stared at her with surprise.

Thorin handed her lead off to a guard.  “Tend to it and find it a cell.  I will call for it when I need it.”

As she was led away she saw him embrace a short dwarf with fine robes and white hair.  “I am glad to be back.  It is done.”

“Your messengers arrived a few days ago.  We sent out the summons.  They should all arrive soon if they choose to come.”  The other answered.

“They’ll come,” Thorin assured him.  “News will travel out of Dale with the evening barges.  The war is done.  We hold the Eastern Kingdoms now.”

She heard no more of the conversation as she was led away and up inside the hold.  The paths were well-lit but she quickly lost her way.  She was taken to what looked like a set of storerooms all in a row, one which had been emptied of all but a wooden cot and small table.  Here she was left with a blanket and a candle.  As soon as the door was locked she sat down and pulled off her boots.  Her feet had blistered, painfully so, and she knew she would not be able to get the boots on again.  She carefully wrapped her feet in her socks, laid down on the blanket and hugged the boots to her as she watched the candle burn down.

When it went out the mountain closed in on her in the darkness. 

 

 

****


	3. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What if Thorin was a Tudor King?"
> 
> An AU work of fiction where the dwarves had never left Erebor, but instead are like the Tudor monarchs - warlike and ruthless, and Thorin Son of Thrain is the absolute Master of The Lonely Mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The period of the Tudor reign was universally brutal, where the rule of the monarchy was absolute and rebellion was dealt with in a manner that would make us cringe today. The King ruled without question and the fate of those around him was at his whim. The challenge was to write the story as if it were in this period yet keep true to the original nature of these characters. I hope I have done so well.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS STORY: Violence, captivity, torture, night terrors, darkness. Readers may be offended at the conduct of their favorite characters. Thorin is a brutal bastard; Dwalin even more so.

 

**_“What if Thorin was a Tudor King?”  
_ **

** Chapter Three **

**“Broken”**

At first she slept, making use of the dark to rest her legs and feet.  The door would open, she was brought water and a new candle and the door closed.  No one spoke to her.  When the candle burned she lay on the cot and thought about her family.  When it burned down she hugged her boots and tried to sleep.  Time hovered around her.  In the dark she traced the lines of the stars in her memory.

Finally hunger began to chew at her.  If the dwarves watching her spoke the common trade language they didn’t show it.  She became afraid that she had been forgotten.  _“I will call for it when I need it.”_   She sat on her cot a held her head in her hands.  He had made a point in saying it so she could understand.  He hadn’t forgotten her.  He was waiting, but for what she could not know.

After several sleeps they came for her.  The dwarves watching her had not been unkind as much as uninterested.  They let her out several times to attend to needs.  They weren’t worried about her escaping, where would she go?  On her last trip back the two guards were come to fetch her.  _“Bring the dog.”_   She held out her hands and let them bind her.  They led her back through the maze of smooth stone tunnels until she was again quite lost.  These were well-lit with even stone floors and runes carved at every intersection.  Some seemed to wind as if following a natural course, some went straight through.  Finally they came to a doorway that opened into a large hall.

Kelyn stopped and stared.  Never had she imagined that so large a space could exist underground.  The lower part of it had been carved out of the living rock while the upper part vaulted up and beyond her sight.  It was beautiful and grand and for a moment she thought the mountain must be a hollow shell above it for this could not exist otherwise.  The floor was packed with men and dwarves and they all seemed to be waiting on something expectantly.  She must have entered through a side passage because the crowd was to her left and to her right a short flight of steps ascended a long raised platform where seated on a throne carved from the dark stone sat Thorin, Son of Thrain, Son of Thror, of the Line of Durin and Monarch of The East.  To his right stood his Second, Dwalin, Son of Fundin and next to him the shorter, white haired dwarf Thorin had spoken to on their arrival.  There were others of various ages and station, but none matched the king. 

Thorin had traded in his road-weary appearance for one more noble.  Gone was the dirt and the armor and he now wore a long blue velvet surcoat over a black and silver tunic, held in place by a handsomely wrought and jeweled belt.  The black fur trim on the coat matched his hair and heightened the silver streaks that ran through it.  The black gloves and boots completed the picture of one who belonged on that throne.  He sat easily, leaning over to speak to his Second while keeping an eye on the gallery.  He did not look like the same dwarf she had walked down the road beside.  Dwalin noticed her arrival at the side door and motioned with a nod of his head.

Thorin stood up, a signal for the quiet buzz of conversation in the hall to fall silent.  When they were all looking to him he spoke careful, measured words loud enough for all of them to hear.  “The War of the Eastern Kingdoms is at an end.  You have been called here to swear a pledge of fealty to Erebor and secure this peace with your cooperation.”  He motioned to a table set up off to his right where a short dwarf with gray, tightly braided hair stood with a large parchment and a wooden box.  Kelyn knew nothing about writing, her people kept no written records.  She watched, wondering what was going to happen.  Several of the men approached the table to look at the parchment.  They were well dressed with chains of office around their necks.  She supposed they were the heads of towns or perhaps even cities.  She had little experience with such things.  The one thing she was sure of was that none of these men were warriors.  They were soft and overly padded with more gold then they should be wearing.

“This is an outrage!”  The fattest one of them spoke loudly.  “Why should we pay tribute to you, Master Dwarf?  You want control over our trade routes, a share of the goods we produce or import?  No have no right to demand this from us.”

“Erebor’s treasury has paid for the securing of your borders.  War is expensive, my lords.  Your trade routes are now open by our efforts.  Your farms and herdsmen will go about their business in peace.  Your caravans deliver their goods without fear of harassment.  By the blood of my warriors,” Thorin gestured towards his Second.  “you are now safe to go about your business.”

“We haven’t a caravan through the south safely in a year!” spoke another.  “How are you going to hold that road open?”

“The Horse Lords are no more.  Their forces were brought to surrender some days ago.”  Thorin signaled for her to be brought forward.  _“Bring the dog.”_   This is what he needed her for.  The nomadic Horse Lords were the last threat to his peace.  Without them to raid the open road caravans could travel between cities.  Thorin wanted repayment for their efforts to make that peace.  She tried to walk forward with as much dignity as possible.  She knew what she must look like, ragged and hungry in her bare and blistered feet.  But she knew that they also feared her, feared her people.  That thought gave her strength.  “We have brought your enemies to heel.  Now you will pay up.”

Kelyn wondered what these men had promised him to lead his armies out of the mountain.  All these minor cities and loose warlords picking each other’s carcasses had made life difficult for merchants, impossible for settlers.  Now they had their peace and better be prepared to pay for it.  Thorin was not a dwarf to take no for an answer.

She didn’t want to see them looking at her.  She turned away from their arguing and looked past the platform.  There were stands of weapons and shields lining the back wall, as much for display as to keep them handy, although she couldn’t imagine anyone being foolish enough to draw a blade here.  There were tables with cups and drink, chests and boxes stacked up as well as a brazier to warm the room.

“Are you telling me this woman represents the Horse Lords?”  The fat merchant walked up behind her.  He was overdressed and stank of fragrance.  “How do I know she’s not some whore you pulled out of the gutters of Dale.  Does the lord of that city sign your treaty?”

Kelyn’s hands shot up and grabbed him by his heavy gold chain.  “You are fat and soft,” she pulled him down to face her.  “Lend me your blade and I will slit your belly open like a pillow!”

Her guard yanked her hands away, but the man pushed her and she came back and spit in his face.  “This is an outrage!” he bellowed.  “First you bring us here to extort money from us then you set this… this rabid cur loose among us!”

Thorin stepped down from the platform followed by Dwalin.  “Not at all.  I brought you here to give you a choice.  Sign the document,” he gestured towards the table. “or remain here as my guest.”

He signaled to Dwalin.  _“Bring it.”_

Dwalin’s big fist closed over the back of her neck and she was dragged before the throne where a well-aimed kick to the back of the legs forced her down on her knees.  Thorin stepped in front of her and took her face in his left hand.  Looking up she could see the dangerous expression on his face.  How the others could not see it she did not know they must be blind.

“My patience with rebellion is at an end.”  He looked down at her and there was not mercy in those eyes.  She reached up and grabbed his wrist, trying to pull free, but he was strong beyond her testing.  Carefully he raised his right hand and struck her across the face.  Not hard enough to break anything but she tasted blood in her mouth.  “My enemies will attest to the consequences of opposing my rule.”

Thorin brought the hand back the other direction and struck her again and the sound echoed through the silent hall.  She was surprised at his strength, how easily he did this.  It seemed as if it were nothing to him.  He reached down and pulled a chain up off of the floor.  She saw that one end was fastened to the front of the throne.  The other he clipped to the gold torq she wore around her neck.  “Take the jerkin.”

Dwalin pulled a knife from his belt and cut her hands free.  They stripped off her leather jerkin and ripped her linen shirt open down the back, revealing her scars and her tattoos.  She understood then that she was there to be made an example of.  His treatment of her in this place would be to show the others what would happen if he didn’t have his way. 

Thorin picked something up off of the bench and tossed it to his Second.  “She said twenty, did she not?”

“Aye, she did.”  Dwalin stood behind her, the leather strap in his hand.

Thorin picked up the chain and placed his boot on it, forcing her head down.  “Twenty it is then.” 

Kelyn knew what was coming, heard the blow before it fell.  She tried to get her hands up to protect her head but when the strap came down the pain of it jolted through her and she coughed blood and mucus down on Thorin’s boots.  She tried to make herself go away from it, to that place where pain does not touch you, but she was too weak and every blow that fell drove the breath from her until she choked on it.  The sound of it reverberated to the entire gallery and no one spoke but no one looked away.  When the strap came up with blood on it Thorin raised his hand.  “Enough.”

“Hear me now,” Thorin announced.  “Anyone opposing my will is to be branded a traitor in my eyes.  _You will be treated accordingly!”_

Dwalin leaned over and grabbed her left arm, wrenching it painfully up behind her.  She saw someone walking around from the brazier, a hot iron in their hand.  “No! _No!_ ”  She struggled to free herself but stronger hands held her.  She screamed then, the sound tearing from her throat, and they all lined up to put their marks and seals on the parchment. 

Her task accomplished they let her go.  She stayed huddled there on her knees, dripping blood onto the floor and shaking, cradling her useless left arm. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Echoes in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What if Thorin was a Tudor King?"
> 
> An AU work of fiction where the dwarves had never left Erebor, but instead are like the Tudor monarchs - warlike and ruthless, and Thorin Son of Thrain is the absolute Master of The Lonely Mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The period of the Tudor reign was universally brutal, where the rule of the monarchy was absolute and rebellion was dealt with in a manner that would make us cringe today. The King ruled without question and the fate of those around him was at his whim. The challenge was to write the story as if it were in this period yet keep true to the original nature of these characters. I hope I have done so well.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS STORY: Violence, captivity, torture, night terrors, darkness. Readers may be offended at the conduct of their favorite characters. Thorin is a brutal bastard; Dwalin even more so.

 

 

**_“What if Thorin was a Tudor King?”  
_ **

** Chapter Four **

**“Echoes in the Dark”**

Finally he seemed to have no more use for her and called his servants.  _“Have it bathed and take it to my rooms.”_   Two dwarves helped her rise and guided her from the room.  There were no more guards for her but she no longer needed any.  She managed to get out of the room under her own power but her legs gave way once across the threshold of the door.  They took her through the labyrinth up to what appeared to be living quarters for the dwarves.  Indeed many passed them as they went, stopping to turn and stare at her.  She didn’t see them.  She focused on putting one foot in front of the other and not falling.  The endless movement of feet mesmerized her, or maybe she just hurt too much to notice anything else, but now she was completely lost inside the mountain. 

They arrived at a communal bathing chamber where there rows of tubs and benches.  At one end of the room was a large boiler for heating water.  She would have marveled at seeing water piped in from somewhere above but she sank down and put her head on her arms.  They were not rough with her and she did not resist when they pulled the rest of her clothing off.  They even removed her gold earcuffs and hairbindings and she did not care.  When they poured the warm water over her she gasped with pain but lifted her face up into it, trying to clean the blood from her mouth. 

When they had cleaned her as well as they could they patted the water off and wrapped her in a towel.  The room itself was heated from the boiler and at last she stopped shivering.  An old dwarf with long gray hair came in and looked at her back and shoulder with furrowed brows.  They spoke to each other in their own language.  They were avoiding speaking to her so it surprised her when the old dwarf said softly, “Hold still.”

He gently spread a sweet smelling ointment across her back and it felt cool.  “I will make a poultice for your shoulder.  It will heal but there will be a scar I am sorry to say.”  Finally he tutted over the state of her feet.  He carefully wrapped them in linen bandages.

She turned her head slightly and whispered, “I thank you.”  She would have said more but the words just wouldn’t come from her mouth. 

They dressed her in a long skirt and a loose tunic made from soft wool.  The material was light on her skin but burned when it went on.  She was so tired now the feel of it brought tears to her eyes.  Then they picked her up and made her walk again, up more steps to a wide corridor with few doors.  They stopped in front of a magnificently carved door.  There were seven stars over a crown, hammer and anvil all inlaid with gold.  The Seal of Durin.  She did not stop to appreciate them.  Inside was a large, luxurious set of rooms, the first of which was appointed by tables and chairs and shelves of books and scrolls.  Her bare feet padded across thick woven carpets, past the fireplace and other objects that would have one time interested her. 

The inner room was equally large, containing a grand bed, several standing wardrobes and other furnishings.  There was a chain attached to an iron ring in the hearth as one would use to keep dogs.  That chain was fastened to her golden collar.  They left her sitting on the rug in front of the fireplace, trying to stay warm.  _“…take it to my rooms.”_   Whatever lay in front of her she could bear.  She was, after all, a warrior and had born far worse.  But for now she was tired, hungry and in pain.  She would wait to see what new punishment he had for her upon his arrival.  Until then she would try to sleep.  Sleep would be the only peace left to her.  Laying on the rug was no good.  She could not lay on her back or left shoulder and her right leg hurt too much to lay on the floor.  Finally she managed to prop herself against her right side in a corner near the fire and dozed off. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

There was no telling time in this place.  No rising or setting of the sun, no wax or wane of the moon.  But at least it was not completely dark and she was able to sleep in peace until his arrival woke her up.  He entered followed by his servants and by his walk she could tell that he had been drinking, celebrating his long-awaited victories.  His servants started pulling off his clothing, revealing his chest and shoulders.  He was scarred and covered in tattooed runes and images.  Kelyn would have been impressed by him but she was too weary to care.  She stayed where she was and closed her eyes.  

Thorin crossed over to where she lay and crouched down in front of her.  He reeked of strong ale and sweat.  “I know you can hear me,” he said quietly.  “I am not a monster and I do not take women against their will.  You will be safe here as long as you don’t try to knife me in my sleep.”

“I am past trying to kill you,” she answered.  “We both have what we needed.”

“Aye.”  He rocked back on his heels.  “On the morrow we will see what is to be done with you.”  And with that he climbed into bed.  The servants put the lights out, leaving only the fire burning and left the room.

She listened to him until his breathing told her that he slept deeply.  There would be no surprises this night.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sometime in the deep of the night, when all in this part of the mountain slept and the halls were quiet, dwarves emerged with poles and small mallets in their hands and started making their ways up the many passages of the labyrinth, tapping the stone gently as they went.  They were listening to the stone speak it’s whispering voice.  Solid, secure stone spoke with one voice.  Weak, fissured stone with another.  Weak stone was traitorous.  Weak stone collapsed under the vibration of walking feet.  These dwarves gently tap-tapped the stone in the silence and waited for its answer.  _“Yes, for today you are safe.”_

Their quiet knocking echoed softly through the labyrinth, a comforting sound to the dwarves that lived their entire lives under the stone.  For the mountain spoke to them and sometimes it changed, shifted, remade itself.  The soft sound of tapping reverberated through the tunnels and passageways like so many running feet.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin jolted awake to the sound of commotion in his room.  Always a light sleeper he pushed himself up in the bed and saw something struggling on the floor.  It took a few moments for him to remember the woman he had left on his hearth.  She was struggling with something, or looked to be, but in the dim light he couldn’t see anything else in the room.  Then she emitted a strangling sound and he realized that she was choking herself on her collar. 

Jumping down he grabbed her and tried to push her back towards the fireplace, but she was rigid and unseeing.  He swore to Mahal under his breath as he tried to unfasten the chain that held her.  “Let me help you!”

“They are coming,” she gasped hoarsely.  “I can hear them!”

Thorin knew that those races that lived above ground sometimes had difficulty being underground.  Claustrophobia and panic sometimes set in when those used to thin walls and a roof felt the mountain pressing in.   _Stone sickness_ they called it, but he had never seen it this bad.  He wrapped one arm around her and held her back while unfastening the chain with the other hand.  Free, she kicked away from him.  “I can hear them.”

He listened and heard nothing.  “Girl, there is no one here.”  But she did not see him.  She dragged herself away until she was pressed alongside one of the standing wardrobes.

He carefully approached her and placed a hand on her arm.  She was shaking violently, looking off into the darkness.  “Orome, my leg,” she whispered.  After a few more moments Kelyn exhaled deeply, leaned back against the wardrobe and closed her eyes. 

Thorin watched for a few minutes until he was sure she was completely asleep.  He had seen this woman fight, watched her face down his Second, but now she was frightened of something he couldn’t see.  “Warrior’s dreams,” his father had called them.  “Dreaming you are back in battle.  It comes on you in the night and you wake fighting.  Makes you a poor bedmate.”  Thorin knew them, he would lash-out if anyone woke him from sleep.  He decided against putting her back on the chain for tonight.  Retreating to his bed he pulled the furs back over himself and lay listening to the comforting sounds of the Stone Wardens echoing in the dark. 

 

 

 

 


	5. "A Lesser Shadow"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For someone who has lived all her life in the open Kelyn is not faring well isolated in Thorin's rooms. Claustrophobia sets in and PTSD rears it's ugly head. When Thorin finally allows a restless Kelyn out of his rooms she finds herself alone and friendless in the heart of her enemies camp. Dwalin and Balin could not be more different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the long interlude between this chapter and the last. This is a much slower write (even with my ever so patient reviewer) and Kili and Fili have been demanding my attention!

 

Kelyn woke to the sound of voices and the smell of food.  She was laying on the stone floor in a corner far from the fireplace.  She hurt, everything hurt, and she did not know where she was.  The room was dimly lit by the remains of a dying fire and she was alone.  The voices and the food were in the next room.  Propping herself up painfully against the wall she listened to the unfamiliar sounds quietly spoken. 

 

* * *

 

 

“You know my feelings about this, Thorin.” 

“Your words always weigh heavily with me, my old friend.  But this is necessary.”

Thorin sat at the table opposite the white-haired dwarf he had spoken to on their first arrival.  Balin was not only one of his closest friends but an advisor and administrator he could trust.  The table was spread with papers, plates of food and cups.  The king took his breakfast each morning with his advisor to discuss the business of the day in private before meeting with the court.

Balin gave him a dissatisfied look.  He knew from experience that Thorin would have his way and the woman was a proven enemy.  It wasn’t her imprisonment that he objected to but her treatment of the day before.  He was an old and capable warrior but lacked the blood-rage of his younger brother Dwalin.  He had always been a stabilizing influence over his Warrior King, carefully watching over the balance of the kingdom and the actions of his friend.  They finished their business.  Balin shuffled his papers together and prepared to leave.  “You have been a fine monarch in the time of war.  The best we have ever known.  But now you must learn to rule in a time of peace.”

“You think I cannot?”  Balin was one of the few dwarves who felt they could speak freely with the king and Thorin valued his honest opinion.

“Diplomacy will be hard after being at war.”  He met Thorin’s gaze with clarity.  He had no talent for lies.  “You’re used to having your way because you are the strongest.  But peace takes more than just strength.”

“That is why I have you to guide me, old friend.”  The sons of Fundin were Thorin’s closest friends.  They had been raised together, fought together, lived side-by-side their entire lives.  He was smart enough to listen to them when it came to matters of war and peace.

“Just give my words thought.”

“I always do.”

 

* * *

 

  

Balin’s exit was the cue for the servants to return and straighten up after breakfast.  Thorin waved them away from the table.  “Bring the dog.”

Kelyn stopped just inside the door, not knowing what to expect.  He could see the dark circles under her eyes, the way she eyed the food on the table.

“Sit,” he commanded.

Cautiously she walked to the table and sat opposite him, perching rigidly on the edge of the chair.

“You must be hungry.”

She did not reply but looked down darkly at the table.

Thorin took his half-finished plate and made as if to slide it over to her, but stopped in mid-table.  She wanted that plate he could tell, but she did not look up or reach for it.  “I will allow you to have this,” he said.  “But remember this, you are nothing, you have nothing.  Everything comes to you through my hands.”

She remained silent as he slid the plate the rest of the way across the table.  Standing he told the servants “Let it eat.  I will call for it when I want it.”

Only after he departed did she reach out with her right hand and draw the plate to her.  She ate slowly, painfully, her mouth stinging and stomach churning.  It took a long time to get down and when she was done she rose from the table and went back to her corner by the fire. 

 

* * *

 

 

The food brought her a few solid hours of sleep.  The rooms were so quiet it made her uneasy.  In the golden fields of her people even if one was alone there was still the sound of the wind running through the grass, the small birds fitfully piping, the breathing of her horse.  She dreamed she was sleeping in the tall grass under the clear sky, the wind moving above her. 

 

* * *

 

 

The sound of approaching boots woke her.  She did not start or open her eyes but listened until she heard voices.  Someone, not Thorin was conversing quietly with the servants in the next room.  When they fetched her she was surprised to find Balin had returned with the grey-haired dwarf who had tended to her the day before.

“Let’s have a look at your shoulder then,” the dwarf motioned towards an empty chair.  Very carefully he pulled up her sleeve and pulled off the bandage he had placed there.  It stuck to the burn and pulled.  Kelyn grit her teeth and looked away.  “A nasty business that,” he mused quietly.  “Still, the poultice seems to be working.  I will need to scrape away some of the dead flesh.  You’ll need to hold still.”

Kelyn thought she had known pain before; she was wrong.  By the time he was finished silent tears were flowing into her sleeve.  She sat quiet and docile as he finished her bandages.  “I am in your debt, Master Dwarf,” she whispered. 

Balin motioned to one of the servants who set a bowl and a cup on the table.  “I thought this would be easier for you to eat.”

Kelyn turned her eyes to the bowl of warm soup on the table.  It was full of soft meat and vegetables in a dark broth.  She did not look up.  “You should not do this.”

Balin and the healer dwarf looked at each other.  “You won’t heal if you do not eat.”

“Do me no kindness, for I am your enemy,” she answered.  “Do not succor me for if I found you on the road I would kill you.  It’s not weakness that stays my hand, but the vow I made in promise for my people.  Twenty lashes and a traitors brand does little to balance the misery I have wrought upon you.  Your king was right to do what he did for I would have done the same.”

“Still,” the healer dwarf replied.  “I say you need to eat.  And while you are in my care that’s not a request, that’s an order.”

Once she was left to herself she pulled the bowl to her and was grateful.

 

* * *

 

 

Every day was the same.  She would wake to the sounds of Thorin and Balin speaking.  Balin would leave and Thorin would give her his plate.  And every day he would speak the same words, “I will allow you to have this.  But remember this, you are nothing, you have nothing.  Everything comes to you through my hands.”  Then he would take his leave for the day. “Let it eat.  I will call for it when I want it.”

And every day Balin and the grey-haired healer would come in and check on her.  The healer tended to the blisters on her feet, the cut on her back and, finally, to the burn on her shoulder.  Every day he would scrape away the dead flesh, as painful as anything she had endured and she would thank him for it.  Every day Balin would bring her soup and bread at the nooning and for supper.

Finally, one day, she spoke to them directly.  “I do mean what I say.”

They turned back to her.  “Pardon?”

“You should not show me kindness.  You will anger him and I would not wish it upon you.”

The two dwarves looked at each other, then Balin answered.  “Let us worry about Thorin.  If Oin says you must eat than he will accept that.  But we would not have it otherwise.”

She nodded to them and turned back to her food.

 

* * *

 

 

Kelyn found herself with hours on her hands and nothing to fill it, slowly growing desperate in the set of rooms she never set foot out of.  There was Thorin’s bedchamber with an attached closet and bathing room, the outer room for public use and several attached small auxiliary chambers that she did not see the inside of.  She slept as many hours as she could stand and then would start walking between the rooms.  There were no windows and the ventilation holes in the stone ceiling frightened her.  The stone ceiling itself frightened her.  She leaned her forehead against the cool walls until her fear passed through her.  Every night she dreamt of footsteps in the darkness.  Every night she woke up damp and unsettled.  The days were marked by Thorin’s passing and little else.

The sameness began to grate upon her, making her skull ache behind her eyes.  She memorized the patterns in the polished stone floor as she paced back and forth.  Watched the servants as they came in to pick up the days leavings and carefully remove the dust from the rooms.  Sometimes they brought clothing in or took it away.  Every day they made her a bath but they never spoke to her.  She thought the must speak the trade language at least a little, but they did not acknowledge her beyond being a space that they could not pass through.  She considered pushing something off a shelf just to hear the noise of it breaking.  Finally she had to give and when Thorin passed her the plate of food at breakfast she looked at him and said, “Thank you.”

He paused, sat back and regarded her for a long moment.  “I think it’s time we get you a proper dress and trot you out for a bit.  It might provide me with a distraction.”

She wasn’t sure if he was trying to be insulting or if that was how he spoke to everyone so she looked down at the plate and pulled it towards her and did not answer.  After she bathed and Balin and Oin had come and gone a Dwarf arrived and asked her to stand while he measured her.  He was very polite to her and she stood studying his hair and clothing from her added height.  He was broad and compact as many of them were, wore very fine robes of a plush cloth of a kind she had never seen before and had his nearly white hair was braided and coiled around his head.  Kelyn thought that it must take hours to make that way.

“You are exceptionally tall and slender,” he remarked in his flawless Westron.  She smiled at this, for she was neither of those things.  “I will say that a nice light shade of blue would look well on you.”

“I have no boots,” she told him.  “Am I to walk about with my feet to the floor?”

“Boots have to be made to fit, but I can bring you slippers.  Let me see your feet.” 

And so she found a belted dress and slippers made of a soft blue material waiting for her the next day, brought in by the servants and left on the couch.  She was not accustomed to wearing such a garment, having spent her entire life in breeches and a jerkin, and it took her a while to manage it.  A female servant came in and helped her belt it in place and then combed the tangles out of her long hair and put it into a simple braid.  “That’s much better,” said the Dwarf in heavily accented Westron.  “Now you look proper.”

“I thank you,” Kelyn nodded, reaching back to feel the single braid.  She wasn’t sure what the Dwarven idea of “proper” was but she didn’t want to offend one of the few people actually speaking to her.  “Will you be…” she stuttered, her voice rough from all the silence.  “Will you be coming to help me every day?”

“If they send me,” the Dwarf replied.  “But I expect so.  A lady cannot be expected to do these things for herself.”

“Oh.”  Kelyn felt dumbstruck.  She didn’t know why this Dwarf would feel that she had any station at all.  “I would welcome your company.”  The truth was she had began to feel profoundly lonely and was glad to have another woman to speak to.

“Well, look at you,” a deep voice sounded behind them.  They both turned to see Thorin standing in the doorway watching them.  The servant immediately stood, bowed and backed out to leave.  Kelyn felt disappointed to lose her so soon.  “Now that you are presentable you may follow me out.”

She looked up at him and bit back the urge to respond.  She knew he would bait her temper, and she had a temper, but she really wanted to get outside of that door.  He seemed to be at loose ends for the day, as loose as a king had the luxury of being, which meant he did not have to meet with court or council.  Instead she followed him around as he toured the mountain, grasping shoulders with this lord or having words with that captain.  None of the high-born dwarves they encountered seemed to notice she was there although she stood out for her height if nothing else.  Thorin had servants who trailed at a discreet distance, but they were all dwarf.  Nevertheless she felt as if she were always being watched.  Faced with these dwarves with their furs and velvets and fine jewels she had to remind herself that she had been the leader of a great people once, and although she looked inconsequential now, she knew none of these dwarves would have faced her horsemen on the open plain.  That thought brought strength.

They made their way into a district where craftsmen plied their trade near the great forges.  Leatherworkers and smiths of all kinds made weapons and gear the like of which she had never laid eyes upon and she fought the urge to stop and inspect as they passed.  The tradesmen at least seemed to see her, less concerned with protocol and more of their own minds they watched her pass, some as of a passing novelty, others with a more critical eye.  Some of these dwarves Kelyn decided had the look of old warriors and she wondered if they had heard that Thorin had taken a horse-lord for his hostage and how many of them she had faced on the field of battle.  While she had slowed to ponder this question Thorin’s entourage had continued to move ahead and for the moment she was unnoticed.  It was then that a passing dwarf, a big, hard, gray-haired veteran made his way through the crowd past them, shoving her out of the way with his shoulder.  She instinctively reached for her sword only to remember she wasn’t wearing one.  She was alone and defenseless in the heart of her enemy’s camp.  “Come, Dog!” Thorin barked out and she hurried to catch up.

 

* * *

 

They made their way to the training grounds where Dwalin was sparring with several impressive looking warriors.  Kelyn could see why her people had fared so poorly in hand-to-hand combat with these dwarves, they made up for their lack of height with their heavier body mass and strength, and the fighting was absolutely vicious.  There were a ring of spectator seats around one side and she sat at the edge of one stone bench to watch.  Thorin stripped off his coat and tunic and stepped in to give Dwalin a match and for once she was glad she was just watching.  They were easily the largest dwarves in the ring, the others getting out of the way, and they proceeded to brutally beat each other until Thorin grabbed Dwalin across the shoulders, kicked his leg out from under him and threw him to the ground.  To the outsider this might look like a futile exercise in brutality, but Kelyn knew that this was fighting of the last resort, when your horse was down under you and your weapons broken, if you were not prepared to beat your enemy to death he was certainly prepared to do it to you.  Dwalin scrambled up and threw himself at Thorin, sending them both crashing down with the larger dwarf on top.

“Dwalin is the only one big enough to do that,” spoke a voice next to her.  Kelyn jumped a little then turned to see a young dwarf standing next to her, watching the match.  He was well-built, but not heavy with a shock of red hair and a beard just starting.  “To do what?”

“Take on Thorin like that,” he amended.  She nodded in agreement.  The two warriors were by far larger than anyone in the ring.  “I can see, they are exceptional fighters.”

“Gimli, son of Gloin,” the young dwarf spoke in way of introduction. “At your service.”  He gave a small bow.

“Kelyn, daughter of Ket,” she placed a hand on his shoulder.  “Hail Gimli and well met.”  They turned back towards the ring.  “Do you partake of the fighting here?”

“No,” Gimli replied.  “I am only here to observe.  I am not old enough for the ring.  That is my father down below,” he gestured to an older, much studier dwarf with red hair and an impressive beard.  “I won’t even start to put on any real weight until I hit one-hundred!”

“You are your father’s son,” she answered.  “And I am sure you will make a fine warrior.  I would never be strong enough to enter that ring even if my people did live to be that old.”  She felt more relaxed here among other warriors, this easy camaraderie was something she knew well. 

He laughed.  “No lady such as yourself should ever be expected to take to the field of battle!”

She did not know if she should consider that a complement or an insult.  “I will have it known, master dwarf, that I can hold both a sword and a bow and give righteous account of myself.”

He smiled.  “Not to be in anyway disrespectful, but you don’t look big enough to even raise a sword or an axe.  But here we also use the bow, not on the field of battle but for hunting.”

“That I did not know.  I have never seen a dwarf wield a bow.”  The skill of her archers had served her well against the dwarven horde for many years.  If they could use bows then why did they not turn that advantage against them?

“Come, I will show you.”  Gimli stood and clomped off.  Kelyn looked back at Thorin, he and Dwalin were still engaged in the ring and he was not paying any though to her whereabouts.  She got up and followed the young red-headed dwarf.

There was a small archery range in the back of the training grounds, wedged into a rough, unfinished part of the room.  It looked little used and much of the equipment was dusty.  She picked up one of the bows and tested the pull.  It was much to heavy for her to draw without her arms shaking.  “This is fine make but I cannot pull it.”

“Give her one of the little ones the dwarrows use,” a rough voice sounded behind them.  They both turned to see Thorin and Dwalin walking up behind them.  There was blood an Thorin’s face and he looked happy.  The dwarves around them laughed.  Kelyn moved to set the bow back in it’s holder on the wall.

“Find her a bow,” Thorin commanded.  “Let us see if she can hit a target.”

One of the dwarves stepped forward with a smallish bow, which she assumed must be for the beginners as it was much worn and not as well made as the large ones.  She tested the string, stepped up to the line and reached into the bucket for an arrow.  It took her a few tries to find arrows with decent fletching.  She set her feet, raised her elbow and pulled, the arrow shooting wide of the target.  She ignored their laughter and the sounds of coin exchanging hands and drew again, keeping her elbow up and sighting on the straw target.  This time she hit the outer mark.  Not acceptable.  Again twice more, with more consideration for the bow.  Her third shot hit home, a killing bow to the chest.

“She will do better if you let her practice up a bit,” Dwalin went on.  He was standing to her left, near the rough wall.  The others laughed around him.

She drew another arrow from the bucket.  “The trick, master dwarf,” she knocked, drew and turned to face him.  The laughter behind her died away.  “Is not to hit a target which stands still.”  They stared at each other for long seconds.  She has the weapon pointed directly at his face.  He did not blink.  She raised her aim an inch up and to the left.  “But to hit one,” the arrow flew, there was a loud squeal and a clatter.  “that moves.”

The dwarves turned to see what she had hit.  One of them picked up the arrow and displayed the rat that had been running along one of the jagged ledges of the cavern.  “That is a fair shot!”

_“I spoke the truth when I said twenty.”_   She knew she shouldn’t have said it, but her pride and her frustration were the better of her.  Dwalin turned back towards her, a murderous rage on his face.  He closed the distance before she could get her arm up and struck her, not hard enough to splinter the bone but hard enough to send her crashing to the ground.  In a moment she was back up, swinging the bow at his head as she gained her feet and cracking him with it hard enough to make him stumble back.  She grabbed at the bucket as she stood and when he came back around he was facing her last arrow.

_“Enough!”_ Thorin’s roar cut through the shouting and they both froze.  Dwalin spit blood on the ground and turned to walk away.  Kelyn’s blood was roaring in her ears and her hands were shaking.  She had not meant to fight but she had to fight.  It was ingrained in her, part of who she was and she would never ever be able to deny that part of herself.  She forced herself to relax her draw and allow someone to take the bow from her hands.  Thorin motioned for his servants.  “Take the dog back to my rooms and clean it up.  I shall not need it for the rest of the day.”

She allowed herself to be led back through the winding halls to the king’s chambers where she washed her face and inspected her teeth.  Thinking back on it she knew he must have pulled his punch because nothing had broken, but she had certainly not pulled hers.  She felt a wash of shame at the look on Gimli’s face as she was being led away.  She should not have behaved so in front of someone who had been so naively courteous towards her. 

At the evening bell soup and bread arrived along with a concerned looking Balin.  “You and my brother know how to get each others hackles up,” he commented, looking at the bruise on her face.

“He’s your brother?”  She was astonished, but the names should have given it away.  _“Your_ brother?”

“Aye, and I can see I’m going to have to keep the two of you apart.”  He sat in the chair across the table from her.

She shrugged.  “It is nothing.”

“I wouldn’t call that nothing.  We do not strike our women.”

Kelyn looked up at him over her spoon.  “I am no woman.”  And then at the quirky look he gave her added.  “I am a warrior.  I could ride before I could run.  Could kill before I could marry.  It is our way and I cannot be anything else.  Besides, he held his blow.  I am not so much of a fool to think I would stand if he hit me in earnest.”

“Still, I would feel better if there were no more violence between the two of you.”

She looked down at her bread as she pulled it apart and frowned.  “I am…  I am feeling penned-up.  Like a horse that has been on the picket line too long.  It makes me kick hard.”

Balin smiled.  “I think I can convince Thorin to get you out of these rooms more, if at least to get some exercise.”

“Again I am in your debt.”

  

* * *

 

 

That night when Thorin returned to the room he had the servants bring a padded chaise in for her to sleep on.  “You cannot be comfortable on the stone.  You are too restless at night.  Tomorrow you will return to the training grounds to make the archery range fit for use.  It will keep you busy and out of my way.”

She tested the chaise and found it comfortable in front of the fire.  She would have to remember to thank Balin on the morrow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the feedback I have been getting! I am on Tumblr and you can contact me via post here or through pm on Tumblr. http://withywindlesdaughter.tumblr.com/
> 
> I do love to read your stories as well! Please let me know if you are posting! Namaste


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